Then Lancelot pointed at Vera, and the couple they’d been speaking with turned around with bright faces—and it wasn’t just a couple. There was a cherub-faced toddler with mussed curls like he’d been freshly woken from a nap as he nuzzled into his father’s trousers, and the mother cradled a bundle of white cloths in her arms, which proved itself to be a baby as it thrust a tiny fist into the air.

They were coming toward her now. Shit. There’d be no avoiding this. The man, who must have been the one to bestow his son with curls (though his were not so unruly), closed the distance with a few strides and bowed. “Your Majesty, my name is Roger, and this is my wife, Helene.”

Helene ducked her head and drew her dress out with one hand in as best a curtsy as she could manage with the baby in her arms. Lancelot smiled with a glint in his eye from behind Helene while Arthur stood tense at his side.

What the hell was this about?

“It’s … it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Vera didn’t know if she should ask the couple a question, but Roger solved that for her.

“We know you aren’t taking queries, but … we hoped you would bless our new daughter,” Roger said.

“Oh.” If this had been one of Guinevere’s duties before, it could be added to the countless other things Vera didn’t know about.

Arthur cast Lancelot an uncharacteristically unguarded glare before he sighed and stepped close to Vera, between her and all the others. He leaned next to her ear and spoke quietly, raising goosebumps on her neck. “This is quite customary, and you’re fully capable if you’d like to say yes,” he said. “But I can do it if you’d rather.”

Vera hadn’t ever been this close to him and had his eyes locked on hers for this long. There was no cold mask in place. This was a matter of ruling well, and no loathing or bitterness could stand in Arthur’s way of loving his people. She wanted to show him that she could do something that might be helpful.

“I can try,” she said. Arthur nodded as he stepped away, and Vera turned back to the couple. “Just, erm, a standard sort of blessing, then? For a, er, healthy life and the like?”

Roger smiled. Helene nodded.

Did Guinevere have religious training that she didn’t know about? Helene wore a veil. Was that a religious choice? Vera licked her parched lips. “Shall I use Christian or pagan prayers?” She didn’t know many of either.

“It doesn’t matter to us,” Helene answered. “We’ll be honored by whatever blessings you offer.”

Vera swallowed. “May I?” she said, with a gesture toward the little bundle.

Helene’s rosy cheeks dimpled with her smile as she passed the bundle to Vera. The baby, barely older than a newborn, wore a white christening gown. The tiny perfect fingers of one hand waved through the air occasionally, and the other fist balled up under her button of a chin. Her face, with its delicate nose, lips, and closed eyes, was relaxed as she slept.

As if she’d sensed the transfer into a stranger’s arms, the baby started fussing, fitful cries piercing the newfound quiet of the square. Vera bobbed her in rhythm with a soothing “shh-shh-shh” until she calmed back into her deeper sleep.

“What’s her name?” Vera asked quietly.

“Guinevere,” Roger said. “We’ve named her after you.”

Vera’s breath caught. “Thank you,” she mumbled, surprised to be fighting back emotion. After all, the baby was named for the real Guinevere. Not Vera.

“Our town was nearest the final battle. We love our king,” Roger said with a glance at Arthur, “and we have not forgotten it was our queen who saved us.”

Imposter. Liar. Vera couldn’t stop berating herself. But the baby was beautiful and the family sweet—and people were watching.

“God of all,” Vera began with her eyes on the baby, unsure how loudly she should speak. “We ask your blessing on this wondrous child. May she live a long life of health, safety, prosperity—and love and joy all her days.”

The parents thanked Vera, but her attention shifted to the little boy. He’d been hiding behind his mother’s skirt but had inched much closer to Vera, standing on tiptoes to try to get a peek at his sister.

Vera crouched down so he could see. “What do you think about your new sister?”

The boy pouted, his eyes threatening to flood with tears.

“He is frustrated that he can’t pronounce her name,” Helene explained.

An idea tumbled into the front of her thoughts. Helene had turned back to her husband and Lancelot. Arthur was with them, too, his attention focused on whatever it was they were saying. Nobody was paying attention to Vera. Good.

“Can you say ‘Vera?’” she whispered to the child.

“Ve-ra,” he said, breaking it apart into two words.

She nodded encouragingly. “That’s what my parents used to call me. Do you think you’d like that to be your special name for your sister?”

His eyes lit up. “Yes!” he said. “Vera.” He murmured it three times and clumsily kissed his sister’s head, stumbling over a stick he’d wedged into the pocket of his trousers.

“What’s that you have there?” Vera asked.

He pulled it free and brandished it, all shyness forgotten. “My sword!” he proclaimed. “Watch!” His chubby arm waved the stick about. Lancelot caught sight and jumped in to play with the boy. Vera laughed as she stood to pull the baby free from the game’s danger zone, just as she was knocked in the back of her shoulder and stumbled forward.

It was a man who’d bumped her. He carried on with an askance glance back at Vera.

“Pardon me,” she said instinctively, though she’d not done anything wrong.

The man stopped in his tracks and turned back with a taut and nearly purpling, incensed face. Vera recoiled a step as he lurched toward her and hissed, “I won’t pardon a bastard babe.”

He started to stalk away as Vera’s mind slowly made sense of his words. Maybe he knew these sweet young parents, and they hadn’t been married in a way he approved of. Whatever the case, Vera’s cheeks went hot as a quick anger erupted from her. She could have let it go, could have let the man leave with his petulant judgment in tow, but he kicked dirt at the little boy as he passed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Vera snapped.

He stopped and wheeled about to face her. She thought the way his eyes narrowed was a hesitation. People around had started noticing the scuffle, stopping what they were doing and watching. The man’s hand lingered in his pocket as he stared at the ground. If it was guilt and embarrassment, then good. He deserved it for insulting Helene and Roger. It emboldened Vera.

“Not words you care to stand behind?” she quipped.

“It’s a child of a whore,” the man said, and Vera’s jaw fell. But he didn’t sound as certain or convicted with the attention on him.

Vera’s blood boiled. How dare he? She’d tear into him for coming after Helene, but he kept going.

“You haven’t fooled anyone.” The way his loathing stare seared into Vera frightened her. “Convenient you were gone a whole year. Time enough to grow and bear your shameful bastard. You’re no queen. You’ll bring our ruin!”

Wait.

What?

There wasn’t any extra time to process the madness as the man pulled his hand from his pocket, reeled his arm back, and hurled what looked like an egg at Vera. She clutched the baby to her chest, trying to shield her from the blow.

But the impact never came. One moment, Arthur had been fully engaged with the couple, his back turned. And the next, he’d lunged in and caught the egg, which shattered into his hand.

“No!” The man who threw it dropped to his knees and screamed out in terror, the remnants of his anger melting into a pitiful cry. “It was for her,” he wailed.

Vera did her best to ignore him, made easier by the overwhelming and putrid smell that erupted the instant the egg broke. It must have been rotten, but then—it was a puff of greenish smoke that emanated from it and none of the expected oozing mess. Other than the smoke, the egg was empty. But Arthur’s skin started to blister and bulge, rolling like the surface of boiling water.